Hey Darlin’
Cecilia Kavanagh
Hey Darlin’
Copyright © 2009 by Cecilia Kavanagh
All rights reserved.
Illustration: Copyright © 2009 by Cecilia Kavanagh
All rights reserved
Cover design by Cecilia Kavanagh
Author’s Notes: I wanted to thank you personally for purchasing or downloading this e-book. It means so much to me that someone would want to read my words, whether or not you bought it, downloaded it for free, or had it given to you by a friend as a recommendation. That last one especially makes me grateful. This short story is for anyone who has encouraged my writing, whether it was verbally or by doing something that made me want to write. I love you all!
Hey Darlin'
He looks entirely put together, in a sort of messy way. His coral shirtsleeves are peeking out from his jacket, and the shirt itself is wrinkled, giving evidence to the late night in the studio. His bloodshot eyes are hidden by virgin white sunglasses (they got their name by being the ones he took off your face the morning after you had sex for the first time, teasing you that you weren't allowed to wear white anymore) and even though the rest of him screams that he had a long night, you cannot help but smile faintly that his hair is, as usual, flawless. His overall perfection (because that's what he is. He can be as messy as he wants and that perfection won't change, not in your eyes) makes you feel suddenly uneasy.
You glance down and smooth your hands over the smooth silk-like material of your cerulean blue dress anxiously. He still hasn't noticed you, so you raise your hands to adjust your hair and bring your feet, held three inches higher than normal in a beautiful pair of matching silk pumps, together at the heels. The low side ponytail feels very casual but you know it complements the dress well. His head tilts ever so slightly, and the bright sun shining through the diner's windows glint off your dress and into his eyes. He moves his sunglasses ever so slightly down the bridge of his nose to gaze at you. You shiver, even though inside the '50's themed diner it's closing in on 80 degrees.
He moves effortlessly over to you, not rolling his feet exactly, but sort of gliding across the checkered linoleum until he's standing in front of you. His perfect (that word pounds in your head) lips curve into a smile before he softly, gently, barely brushes perfection across your own mouth. Another shiver courses over your body. He pulls away, shimmering concern evident behind the slick black lenses of his sunglasses. You tilt your chin up to ensure he'll see the small smile you offer in reassurance that you are okay.
His fingers find yours and hands tangle as he leads you back over to his table. The silky fabric of your dress swishes across the cushy seats of his booth. He leans forward across the table, elbows resting on the glittery counter. You shift closer, hands shaking as you reach forward to remove his sunglasses. He doesn't flinch as your eyes search his for any sign of why he would ask you here. “Hey darlin'.” You note that his voice is different, only it's still the same. It has a deeper quality to it and it sounds rougher. Blushing slightly, you decide that you like it.
He reaches out to touch your hand and you look back up into his perfect eyes. Perfection. It's beginning to drive you mad. Almost frantically, you scan him over for anything that is flawed, flawed in such a way that it could break this mold of perfect. He is perplexed by your silence but says nothing as you search him. There! A heavyset waitress, her tired eyes betraying the plastered smile she wears, moves surprisingly quickly over to a worn AC unit and gives it a swift kick. Sudden bursts of frigid air punctuate the stifling heat and one such spasm of air disturbs a lock of onyx hair, causing it to fall over his dark eyes. Anything that interrupts that meditative stare cannot be perfection, and you sit back in muted triumph.
His big hands close over your petite, more fragile ones, shielding them from the polar air that is slowly, but surely, filling the small diner. You look up into his eyes and he kisses you slowly over the table. “Tell me you're okay.” His voice cuts through the dull whine of the air conditioner, the soft murmur of the waitress and her conversation with various people sitting at the counter, and the steady, dull thumping of your heartbeat in your ears. You give him an earnest smile, but he doesn't react.
“I'm okay.” The words sound feeble and weak even to you. He raises one perfect (you wince) eyebrow and you stare back almost coldly. You don't understand why you are acting like this, but some foreign voice in the back of your mind is egging you onward in this unpleasant (for that's exactly what it is—unpleasant) task. He sits back in his seat in frustration.
“I can't fix what's wrong if you can't tell me. If you won't tell me.” At his words, the sky opens up and rain starts to pour. The waitress gives an audible groan and turns back to refill a tall, willowy man's coffee cup. You don't remember seeing him a minute ago, but shake your head. You focus on her, not looking at her directly but at a spot on the wall just to her left. For a moment, you imagine the seat across from you empty. He is gone, not only from the small, now humid diner, but from your entire life. The thought brings tears to your eyes, but you blink them back fiercely. Treating him like this is wrong. As long as you love him like you do, it's wrong.
“Nothing is wrong. I promise.” Your voice has a lilting, airy quality to it now, and you turn to face him. He is gone. You blink once—twice. No, he is still gone. Your eyes dart to the dusty parking lot (correction—it is dust and nothing more) to search for his car. The baby blue Mustang (with the white creamy leather interior that you like so much), like its driver, is gone. Confused, you stand abruptly and approach the counter.
The waitress looks up, neither interested nor disinterested in whatever will come from your mouth. You hesitate, and then the words spill over. “I'm sorry—did you see a boy, err, man, leave just now? He was sitting with me over there in that booth...he was wearing sort of dark jeans, and a salmonish-coral shirt with a leather jacket?” You don't know what that was a question, but everything is a question now. How could he have just left? Where did he go? The waitress (the nametag on her faded, stretched uniform says Marge) gives you a quick glance over.